The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

  Sally ran down the hall and closed her door, and Sam and I retreated to the basement. The house became quiet again. There was no dinner that night. Trying to calm myself, I went out through the basement door and ran as hard as I could down Route 66 until the lights in Gallup were a dim spot against the desert sky. I had never run that far out of town.

  The next morning, when I came upstairs, Lonnie, Sally, and Sam had already left for school. I raced out the front door before Mom or Dad could see me. The Rambler was still in the driveway.

  After finishing my paper route that afternoon, I came home to find my brother and sisters sitting around the kitchen table. Dad sat on the couch, and Mom slumped beside him in her nightgown. Her tiny overnight bag sat near the front door.

  “What took you so long?” Dad said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I didn’t know I had to be here.”

  “I stayed home from work today. Sit down—we need to have a family talk. I have some things to say to all of you.”

  He looked down at Mom. She stared vacantly, her eyes dark and sunken, like the POWs I’d seen in war photos.

  “I’m taking your mother to the Nazareth Psychiatric Hospital in Albuquerque,” Dad said quietly. “She needs help for her nerves, and I’m going to make sure she gets it.” He motioned for me to take her overnight bag to the station wagon.

  What the hell was he up to now? There was no way he wanted her to get well. Either he would take her to the funny farm, as he called it, hoping they would keep her for good, or he’d dump her out in the desert after hitting her over the head.

  As Mom stumbled to the car, I ran over and threw my arms around her. “I’m sorry for being so bad.”

  “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “You didn’t mean it. When my nerves get fixed, everything will be better.”

  The Rambler backed into the street, and I waved to Mom, but she sat motionless, looking out the window dazed, unfocused. I felt empty inside, unable to imagine that Mom could ever forgive me—or that I’d ever be free of Dad’s death grip.

  Lonnie made us dinner and told us to do our homework after we washed the dishes. The upstairs was neat and clean, showing no evidence of the terrible events of the day before. For a moment, I pretended Lonnie hadn’t swallowed the bottle of aspirin and I hadn’t wrecked the house and the last of Mom’s nerves.

  Dad would be home soon. I dreaded hearing the Rambler roll into the driveway.

  CHAPTER 18

  DAD TREATED CHRISTMAS EVE LIKE any other Monday. If Mom had been there, we would have put up a small tree and then exchanged one gift each the next day. Dad never had anything to do with it, railing against the Jews and their scheme to spread the false myth that Jesus was God so they could get rich off our stupidity.

  But none of that would happen this year.

  On the Friday before, my class had a Christmas party with punch, cookies, and games. Everyone was smiling, talking about what they’d do during their vacation. Some of them planned trips to see their grandparents.

  At home, the fighting had stopped, but Dad was still as angry and unpredictable as ever. He talked a lot on the phone to the housing office at the Bureau of Indian Affairs and to the staff at the hospital, always yelling before he hung up.

  I spent more time with my paper route customers, and occasionally they invited me in for hot chocolate. A nice lady gave me a globe for Christmas, and others gave me nickels, dimes, quarters, and even a silver dollar.

  Most of our neighbors had put up lights and filled their yards with plastic Jesus statues and Santa Clauses. After delivering the Sunday paper the previous morning, I rode my bike by the East Aztec Baptist Church, where Sam had hidden during the Elephant Hill escape. Families and friends greeted each other warmly with “Merry Christmas” and “God bless you” as they hurried inside to get out of the cold. Violet went to church there, but I didn’t see her.

  When Dad got home from work, Lonnie fixed dinner from the canned food we had reclaimed from the now-abandoned bomb shelter. Corn, Spam, and black-eyed peas. After Dad left the table, the four of us leaned in close, whispering, and then we joined him in the living room.

  “Can we go see Mom . . . please?” I asked him.

  “She’s somebody else’s problem now.” He looked up from the newspaper to see all of his children standing in front of him. For once, Lonnie, Sam, and Sally took my side, everyone pleading with Dad to take us to see Mom.

  “Okay.” He exhaled an impatient sigh. “We’ll go see her, but just this one time. Grab your coats and get in the car.”

  As we drove out of town, we passed the Stearns Sporting Goods Store, still open for Christmas shoppers. I stared at the shiny bikes in the window, shifting around in my seat to keep them in sight as long as possible.

  “I wish we had one of those,” Sam said.

  “Me too.”

  “There’s no reason for Christmas or gifts since there is no God,” Dad said. “Christ faked his death and tricked the Jews into accepting blame.” His head jerked, and he mumbled to himself. “Where’s the bastard now? Dead. And he’ll stay dead. Mary was no virgin. They nearly killed Joseph for knocking her up without marrying her. No one is saved. We just die. Rich people worship money, and poor people worship Jesus. It’s all they’ve got. The poor dumb bastards. Do-gooders pretend that giving gifts makes us better. It ain’t so.”

  Dad glanced at Lonnie in the front seat and then over his shoulder at Sam, Sally, and me. “And don’t encourage your mother by telling her she’ll be part of this family again because she won’t.”

  The knot in my stomach got worse. I couldn’t remember a time when my stomach didn’t hurt or when my palms weren’t sweaty.

  Maybe giving gifts didn’t make people better, but it felt good to get them. And I liked making gifts in school for the family. The teacher had given us wrapping paper and let us make cards. My mind shifted to watching the end of the World Series with the principal and then to doing all those terrible things to Mom in return for her kindness. How could I be okay if she wasn’t?

  After two long hours, we pulled up to the Nazareth Psychiatric Hospital, a three-story building ten miles outside Albuquerque on Rattlesnake Hill. A few snowflakes fell as the five of us paraded in. Near the entrance, I picked up a brochure that said the hospital was run by the Dominican Sisters and specialized in psychodramas. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded bad.

  We followed Dad into the warm lobby and passed a small, plastic Christmas tree covered in lights. Peppermint sticks and Santa Claus and reindeer ornaments hung from the limbs, and a mound of perfectly wrapped gifts sat underneath. For just a moment, I relaxed, surprised that the place was so quiet and peaceful. But that ended the second Dad opened his mouth.

  At the reception desk, an older woman with gray hair and glasses asked, “Who are you here to see?”

  “Thelma Lou Crow,” Dad said. “She’s in the nut ward.”

  “We don’t use terms like that here, sir,” she said, shuffling papers on the desk.

  “Do you prefer fruitcake factory?”

  The woman ignored him. “Visiting hours end at nine,” she said, looking at her watch. “So you only have about a half hour.”

  Dad grunted. “We won’t stay one second longer than we have to.”

  She picked up a phone, but he kept talking. “People here are missing some marbles, including the doctors and nurses,” Dad said.

  The receptionist adjusted her glasses on her nose. “If you’ll wait here, someone will escort you to Mrs. Crow’s room.” Her voice was calm, but her tight mouth gave her away. Dad had rattled her.

  Soon a pretty nurse in a white uniform and cap arrived. “Follow me, children,” she said. “Let’s go see your mother. She’ll be happy to see you.”

  The lobby and hallways had the shiniest floors I’d ever seen. Christmas pictures were pasted on the patients’ doors. Old men and women sat in wheelchairs outside their rooms, staring. Their faces and shoulders drooped,
but they perked up when they saw us, probably hoping we were there to visit them.

  “Is my mom okay?” I asked the nurse.

  “She’s getting the best treatment available,” the nurse said, leading us into Mom’s room. “Seeing you will be the best medicine of all.”

  “I’ll be down the hall,” Dad said, walking away. “Don’t stay too long.”

  Mom was asleep, and we stood by the door while the nurse woke her with a gentle nudge on the shoulder. “Thelma Lou, your children have surprised you on Christmas Eve.”

  Mom barely raised her head and then turned on her side, motioning us toward her. I got to talk to her first.

  “I know what a bad boy I’ve been.” I put my hands in my pockets and looked at my feet. “I’ll always mind if you’ll just get better.” Dad’s voice played in my head, warning us not to make her think she would ever come home, but I didn’t care. Besides, he wasn’t there.

  “Merry Christmas,” Lonnie said. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m so drowsy.” Mom put her hand to her mouth and yawned. “The medicine is strong, but my nerves seem better.”

  Sam and Sally moved forward and took Mom’s outstretched hand. I reached over and placed a wooden Santa Claus we made in art class on her blanket, along with a card made out of red and green construction paper. Every kid in my class had made gifts and cards for their mothers.

  She picked up the Santa Claus. “I’m so proud of my oldest boy who didn’t forget me at Christmas.” She gave me a sleepy smile and her gaze shifted slightly. “Thurston.”

  I whipped around to see Dad behind us, his arms crossed and the Y vein pulsing on his forehead.

  “I’m getting better, Thurston.” Mom opened the card and read inside: “‘I love you and hope you come home soon.’ How sweet.” She closed her eyes. Lonnie shook her head at me, knowing I was about to get in trouble.

  Dad pressed his hands into my shoulders. “Time to go now.”

  As we turned to leave, Mom tried to rise but slumped back on the bed. “I love you all,” she said. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

  I looked back at her. How could she be proud of me? I was the biggest liar of us all.

  Down the hall, Dad grabbed the collar of my coat and shoved me against the wall. “What’s wrong with you?” he said, his face in mine. “Why did you write that you hoped she’d come home soon? We’ll be long gone to Fort Defiance when she gets out.”

  CHAPTER 19

  AS THE GRAY, DREARY WEEKS of January passed, we still hadn’t moved. One night, I overheard Dad screaming into the phone. “I don’t want her back, you dumbass. That’s why I left her with you. I’ve put up with the crazy bitch for sixteen years, and I’ve had enough. Keep her in your permanent rubber room for locos.”

  After the call, Dad did his usual stomping around the house, yelling and swearing, and we did our best to stay out of his way. Eventually, he summoned us for another family meeting. We sat on the red couch, and Dad turned off the TV.

  “The stupid loony bin won’t keep your mother. My insurance won’t pay for all her treatment either. They want more money. Lots of it. From me. I don’t want to pay to tranquilize her, and I don’t want to go get her, but I have to. Our housing in Fort Defiance was supposed to be ready by now, but it won’t be for a few more weeks, and I have to bring her home tonight.”

  He marched out of the house and left in the Rambler. Since Mom couldn’t stay in the hospital, and we’d already made her life a living hell to make her leave, I worried again that Dad would think his only option was to kill her.

  But the station wagon pulled up in the driveway with two people in the front seat. Mom got out in a robe, shuffled up the stairs, and went straight to bed. She was so calm she was practically sleepwalking. Every few hours, she called me into the room to get her a glass of water, and then she’d take a large pill and turn over to go back to sleep. The medicine would steady her broken nerves, she said. Dad called them horse pills.

  For brief periods, she stopped crying, but she had even less energy than before. Each night, after dinner, I went to their bedroom and listened.

  “You’ve got to get a job, Thelma Lou,” Dad told her. “I’m tired of footing all our bills and paying for your psycho medicine.”

  Mom begged him not to make her work. Dad left want ads on the breakfast table each morning and told her to interview for jobs. A month or so later, she came home and called everyone to the kitchen. “I got a job at Winn’s Variety, working the ten-to-two shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That means you kids need to mind and help with the housework and cooking. Your daddy is money crazy, and this’ll make him happy.”

  Lonnie returned to helping Mom with dinner and getting us to clean up and do our homework. And things went smoothly, meaning we didn’t throw dishes, knives, or other utensils at one another. After her first two-day workweek, I found Mom alone in the kitchen, making dinner. “How’s the job going?” I asked.

  “I hate it. I want to quit,” she whined, opening a can of okra and dumping it into the frying pan. “They give you only two fifteen-minute breaks. You guys need me more.”

  “Sorry you don’t like your job.” I had something else on my mind. “Can I use some of my paper route money to buy a speedometer for my bike?”

  “Sure,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll buy one at Gallup Sporting Goods.”

  That was easy enough. Mom and Dad kept the money I earned and let me pocket the tips for spending money. But after several days went by, she hadn’t bought the speedometer. Every time I asked her about it, she said she’d forgotten.

  “Get it tomorrow, Mom, please,” I said.

  When I got home after delivering my papers, I found a speedometer sitting on the kitchen table. “I hope it makes you happy,” Mom said.

  “What about the cable and the box it came in?” I asked.

  “They sold it to me just like that, honey. Won’t it work?”

  “No, Mom. I’ll go back to the store and get the rest of the parts you must have forgotten.” I picked up the speedometer and ran out the door.

  Mom followed me outside and yelled something I couldn’t make out as I sped away on my bike. I parked out front of Gallup Sporting Goods and burst inside. “I need to talk to the manager,” I told the high school kid behind the counter.

  A short, fat Mexican man came toward me from one of the aisles. “I’m the manager. Can I help you?”

  “My mom bought this for me.” I held up the speedometer. “But she forgot to bring home the cable.”

  The man grabbed my upper arm and pulled me toward the counter. “So you’re the one who stole that speedometer.” He pointed at a box that had a coiled cable and a round hole cut out where the speedometer face had been. “You little thief. I’m calling the police.”

  I jerked my arm free, dropped the speedometer, and bolted out the door. When I pulled pranks, things got broken and sometimes people even got hurt, but stealing crossed a different line. Being called a thief felt terrible.

  Dashing into the kitchen, I said, “Mom, how could you take the speedometer without paying?”

  “Honey, I put money on the counter.” She sliced the roast beef and arranged it on a platter. “The man must not have seen it. I’ll straighten it out tomorrow.”

  “But I saw the box it came in and—”

  “No one loves me, not my husband, not my mother, not even my children.” Her eyes welled with tears.

  Poor Mom. It was pointless to be mad at her. Besides, she’d been through enough lately, and I didn’t want to make her feel worse.

  “I love you,” I said, putting my arms around her. “It’ll be okay.”

  ON A WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON in early March, Dad got home from work while Mom was at a friend’s house, which almost never happened. Again, he gathered all four of us kids into the Rambler and drove us into the desert.

  None of us spoke. I sat in the back seat behind Dad, my throat dry with dread. I could only assume he had another ditchi
ng plan.

  He pulled the car over on a sandy shoulder and turned off the engine. Little Sally’s wide eyes went from me on her left to Sam on her right. He shrugged. In the front seat, Lonnie stared at her lap. I could tell she knew what was coming.

  Dad gripped the steering wheel and looked straight ahead. “We’re moving tomorrow while your mother is at work. Go to school and pretend like it’s just another day. When I pick you up, you’ll have fifteen minutes to pack.” He turned to glare at Sam, then Sally, then me. “And I better not hear that any of you blabbed.”

  My stomach lurched, and I thought I’d throw up all over the seat. Mom would come home to an empty house. How could he do that to her? Muttering to himself, he started the car and turned around. Watching the rocks and cactus along the highway, I kept telling myself that Dad had been promising to get rid of Mom for years, so maybe it wouldn’t happen this time either.

  That night, she served the usual okra, roast beef, and iced tea, complaining about her job and our lousy behavior while Dad read the paper—like every other dinner in our household. Sam and I hit each other under the table and threw Sally’s doll down the stairs. Lonnie retrieved it and told us to leave Sally alone.

  “Knock it off, goddamn it,” Dad said.

  “You kids need to help more around the house,” Mom said as Lonnie washed the dishes and put them on the rack to dry.

  When it was time for bed, we went to our rooms, pretending everything was normal.

  “Do you think we can get all our stuff in a box in fifteen minutes?” Sam whispered.

  “We don’t have that much,” I said. “It probably won’t take more than five minutes.”

  Sam turned over and went to sleep. Not me.

  Reading about the Hardy Boys couldn’t distract me. I shone my flashlight at the cracks in the ceiling. Would I be sleeping in a different bed tomorrow night? Or would I wake up and find out this was all a nightmare that hadn’t come true?

  BEFORE SCHOOL STARTED THE NEXT MORNING, I played kickball in the parking lot, punting the ball at Violet as usual. She ducked and stuck out her tongue at me. After lunch, Mrs. Garcia told me to go to the principal’s office.